Calling Me Home
by DragonRider122
Summary: Barbara is the one thing that always brings Helena back. No matter how far she's fallen or how lost she is. -No pairings-


**DISCLAIMER: Don't own, no profit, yada yada yada.**

**I have no idea where this came from, and I'm shocked that it's longer than two thousand words! The ending makes me cringe, but all of my endings do, so...**

**Hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

_All she knew was animal instinct: Pain and fear and the primal urge to curl her lips back over her teeth and snarl as someone—a female, the scent told her—tried to approach. Another, more subtle smell reached her nostrils, oddly familiar, but her hackles were up and she didn't relax her taut muscles as she crouched on the edge of the balcony, poised to leap to the rooftops and retreat like the wounded beast she was. The world swirled red and black and yellow before her eyes, every nerve in her body screaming at her to flee, but a voice, a sound, kept her in place: "Helena…..Helena…..Helena….."_

* * *

"Helena," Barbara whispered softly, moving slowly forward as she faced the young woman perched precariously on the thin stone lip of the balcony. Helena's teeth were bared as her eyes glowed gold, which was a sign in and of itself of how strongly her friend's meta side had taken over. Helena snarled again, shifting her weight backward in preparation to jump, and Barbara stopped, mind racing as she desperately tried to figure out how to get the brunette to stay. Her eidetic memory instantly supplied her with a piece of information that she'd come across when Jim Gordon, had announced that he and his then-teenaged daughter were going camping for a week in Colorado and given her a lecture on what to do should they have the misfortune to run into a bear or mountain lion: _"Don't make any sudden movements, keep your hands in plain sight and use a calm, quiet voice."_

Wryly resolving to thank him after this was over, Barbara inhaled slowly and let her breath out in a gradual exhalation. "Helena," she murmured, carefully observing her younger companion's eyes, her heart beating hard enough that she was sure the brunette could hear it. "You know me."

* * *

_The woman wasn't coming any closer. She relaxed minutely, not any less ready to leap but feeling just a bit more at ease. Her teeth were still bared, muscles fairly vibrating as she stared intently at the redheaded figure just…..sitting there. The human woman's pulse thundered in her ears, and Helena growled, scenting fear—scenting weakness. It would be easy, so easy, to pierce the thin skin and taste rich, salty blood on her tongue….As if in reaction to that thought, the wound in her side throbbed, and she hissed in pain, ready to abandon all deliberations and simply flee into the night. As weak as the human would be against her, she still had a disadvantage._

_ The woman spoke, and Helena heard that voice again. This time, one sound stood out: Barbara. Instantly something clicked, bringing with it a flood of sensations: Warm hands stroking through her hair; green eyes glowing with love as they looked up into her own; the familiar voice in her ear as she leapt through the night; that calming scent chasing away fear and sorrow as she curled into the redhead's arms_. Barbara._ She knew Barbara…..loved Barbara. And Barbara loved her._

_ Helena blinked slowly, the bloodlust instantly vanishing as she recognized Barbara as part of her territory—something to be protected at all costs. Never taking her gaze from those emerald eyes, the lithe brunette relaxed and stepped forward onto the balcony._

* * *

Anyone else would have missed it, but Barbara knew her younger partner well enough to see the miniscule wane of the tension in Helena's muscles. She watched silently as the brunette opened her mouth, scenting the air and the smell of Barbara that carried on the evening wind. "You know me, Hel," she whispered, knowing that Helena would have no problem hearing her voice. "It's Barbara."

No sooner had the redhead uttered the last syllable of her name than a visible change came over Helena. The wary, guarded air vanished completely as something like recognition dawned in those golden eyes, and Barbara could have sworn that she heard the faintest of purrs rumble in Helena's chest. Her heart pounded, trepidation drying her mouth as she watched her friend, ever so slowly, move toward her over the brick floor, gait halting to avoid further aggravation of the deep knife slash in her ribs. Helena's eyes were mostly blue now, although not the cobalt blue of her human form; they were the ice-blue of her augmented persona, and here and there the irises sported large flecks of gold. Barbara heard herself release a breath she hadn't been aware of holding as the rigid set of her own shoulders began to relax, but she also knew that the battle wasn't over yet. Resisting the urge to reach out, afraid of spooking Helena, she forced herself to wait, watching Helena pad across the balcony and come to a stop in front of her chair.

* * *

_Most of the thick haze across her mind was gone, her instincts no longer warning her to run…or attack. Helena scented the air again, and Barbara's warm, comforting fragrance rushed through her veins, drawing a contented purr from somewhere deep in her chest. Somewhere, her animal brain realized that that smell always meant safety for her; always meant shelter and warmth. She heard Barbara speaking, and although the words sounded indistinct and muffled, the intent behind them was clear_: I am your friend._ Any residual tension left her body; she could feel nothing but calm reassurance from the woman in front of her._

_Helena dropped to her knees and pushed her head against Barbara's hand, affectionately nuzzling the redhead's fingers. Her purring increased in volume as Barbara began to gently stroke her hair, and she allowed her eyes to slide shut, knowing that she was completely safe. The world narrowed to her heartbeat in her ears and the sound of air rushing in and out of her lungs as well as the cadence of Barbara's pulse, strong and steady, like a beacon in the night calling Helena home._

* * *

It seemed like hours that they stayed that way, Helena's forehead resting against her mentor's knees as Barbara ran her fingers through silken chocolate strands. Idly the redhead wondered at the fact that Helena, in her basest form, had chosen to seek out physical affection; normally her young friend was somewhat standoffish, never allowing herself to be touched if she could help it and only deigning to extend contact to others if absolutely necessary. Underneath her brash, flirtatious, 'too-tough-for-my-leather' exterior, Barbara was almost painfully aware that Helena's insecurities and fears were enough to eat the brunette alive—an outcome that, on more than one occasion, had seemed frighteningly plausible.

Barbara was drawn from her musings by an almost inaudible shift in Helena's breathing. As the young vigilante had rested against her, Helena had inhaled and exhaled in a slow, deep rhythm, almost as if she were asleep. Now, Barbara noted, her partner's respiration rate had picked up and lightened, causing the redhead to slow the movement of her hand through Helena's hair. "Hel?" she murmured softly, feeling herself tense slightly in anticipation as the younger woman lifted her gaze to her mentor's. Cobalt blue eyes blinked once, seemingly a bit confused, as Helena reared back before grimacing and pressing a hand to her wound.

"Fuck, Barbara, next time just knock me out and stitch me up," she groused, drawing a blink and a small smile from the older woman. Helena paused, glancing briefly down at her bleeding side and then back up at Barbara. "What the hell happened? Last thing I remember is coming in and you flipping out about me going off-comms….I guess I passed out….but how the hell did we end up out here?"

Barbara paused, searching for the right words to adequately describe what had just occurred. "You did pass out," she said finally. "But right now what's more important is getting you cleaned up." It would be a miracle if the wound wasn't infected by now, she thought wearily. And Helena never made it easy for Barbara to take care of her after she'd been wounded, always insisting that it was "no big deal" and she wasn't "a stupid kid that can't take care of herself".

Helena grinned. "If I'm a good girl, will you tell me a story?" quipped the brunette, stepping around Barbara to head for their usual first-aid spot in the training room. Barbara laughed softly, more relieved than she could put into words that her partner was coherent again. She'd never once been afraid that Helena would hurt her—that was a line the brunette had never crossed, at least not of her own volition—but the harm that Helena might have done to herself was another matter entirely.

"If you sit still and don't complain while I stitch you up, then yes," she said wryly.

"Who, me? Complain? Never."

* * *

Oh.

I don't meet Barbara's eyes as she finishes, both with my stitches and the story of what happened to me. It's not that I'm ashamed or anything, but if I was far gone enough to growl at her of all people I'm pretty sure that I would have hurt her if I hadn't been injured myself. I don't remember anything, at least not clearly, and what I do remember isn't something I care to examine too closely. I look at my hands resting on my knees, not wanting to look at Barbara because I'm pretty sure she's scared of me after that. I don't blame her. "God, Barbara, I…"

"Don't apologize," she says firmly, and I'm so surprised that I lift my head. Her jade eyes are steady as they meet mine, and there's no trace of fear or disgust in them. "You reacted instinctively—quite literally, may I add." She puts her hand over mine, gently squeezing my knee, and not for the first time I wonder what the hell I did right to deserve her. "There's no reason for you to blame yourself."

"Says the queen of self-flagellation," I mutter, and Barbara laughs, taking off her glasses and letting them rest in her lap. She pauses, a query in her eyes, and I'm hit with a sudden wave of panic. Whatever she's going to ask isn't something that I want to tell her. Before I can even move, however, she looks at me again and I'm pinned under her gaze. Just like I always am. Damn those eyes, I think angrily right before she speaks.

"I've seen you go feral before, and you always took time to fully snap out of it. You would be gone for….days," she allows quietly, and the tone of her voice is all of my failures slapping me in the face. I tense, wanting more than ever to just leave, but Barbara is still looking at me, and I've never been able to run from her. "What changed?"

Shit. It's not as bad as it could have been, but this really isn't something I want to talk about. Especially to her. I could shrug her off, I could laugh and make a joke, but Barbara would see through me. Always does. And if I leave, I'd hurt her. I hate doing that. I could, and she'd forgive me—she never holds anything against me—but it's not fair to her. Barbara is the only family I have left; she's my mentor, my friend and my sister. She's everything to me. I close my eyes, breathe in and curl my hands into fists. I know that I'll be bleeding by the time this is over. "You were here," I answer quietly, so quiet that I wonder if she heard. "You pulled me back from the edge, Barbara. I heard your voice, and I smelled your scent, and…it brought me home. It always does."

There is silence, an empty, haunting silence. My eyes are still shut, but I don't dare open them to see her reaction, to see what she thinks of my weakness. I wait, and I wait, and just when I'm about to break, I feel her fingers on my face—warm and oh-so-gentle. Seemingly of their own volition, my eyes slide open, and I'm shocked by what I see.

Barbara is crying.

* * *

I've read a lot of poetry in my lifetime. I'm an English teacher, after all. I've read Shakespeare, Dickinson, both Brownings and almost all of the Romantic poets—all incredible, all enough to move me with their language and imagery and make me understand, truly comprehend, the emotions of the poet who wrote that particular piece. But none of them can hold a damn candle to what Helena told me just now.

I know how difficult it is for her to show any measure of vulnerability—hell, I've practically written the instruction manual on keeping yourself closed off. And, hypocritically, I admit, I spend quite a lot of time trying to crack open those walls, to get her to let me in. Most of the time, it's futile, and to be honest, there are times when I think she hates me. And even now, when she's finally letting me see her, she's terrified—terrified that I'll judge her, that I'll think less of her. It hurts even though I understand. The people we love are the ones who can hurt us the most.

Overwhelmed, I do the only thing that comes to mind. I lean forward and gently cup her face, coaxing her head up so that her eyes would be level with mine were they open. A heartbeat later, her eyelids slowly begin to lift, and I wait until cobalt blue eyes are fully locked onto mine. Puzzlement and a little bit of fear flash in her gaze, and she asks, voice slightly hoarse, "Why are you crying?"

There's a lot I could say to that, but I'm not even sure I could find the words to adequately describe what I'm feeling right now. I settle for the simplest, most basic truth: "You're everything to me, Helena," I whisper, letting my thumb run along her cheekbone. "And I'll always be here."

She smiles, tilts her head into my hand and closes her eyes. "Yeah, I know. "


End file.
